


Hollow

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence, an interesting string of tags i must say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: When it came to these fits, Napoleon Solo couldn't help but think of The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot. "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper."They never ended in bangs, no, but they certainly started with them.





	Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the amazing [babbling_bug](http://archiveofourown.org/users/babbling_bug/pseuds/babbling_bug), with English-Russian translations by the equally amazing [Stacho](http://mustachossom.tumblr.com/). Kiss kiss. ♥

When it came to these fits, Napoleon Solo couldn't help but think of The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot. "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper."

They never ended in bangs, no, but they certainly started with them.

The mission had started relatively easy. They'd been assigned to catch an illegal arms dealer--part of a small network known as SILK, rumored to have connections with THRUSH. It soon became apparent Eddie Smith was the weakest link in their web; finding him was easy, due to inside information, and apprehending him even more so.

Too good to be true. That always seemed to be the case these days. The team caught Eddie Smith just before he was leaving his little hidey-hole in Marseille. He cancelled his appointment with a couple of French Hitler fanatics interested in the new bombs SILK was pedaling. Apparently someone in THRUSH had notified Eddie's superiors that agents of UNCLE were tailing him, which made aforementioned superiors very, very upset. Eddie was running from both UNCLE and SILK now, hoping to catch a flight out before anyone could get their bullets in him. In the end, UNCLE got to the weaselly dealer first.

Eddie knew a few things about the three as well, and when bargaining and pleading for his life, his freedom, didn't help, Eddie then resorted to stupidly running his mouth off and insulting his captors.

Napoleon cursed to himself. He knew the moment those colorful profanities left Eddie's mouth, the man's life might as well be over. A swell of panic twisted in his stomach, but it was brief. _Someone_ needed to remain calm. Napoleon didn't need to check Illya's hands to know they were trembling.

"That's unfortunate," Napoleon sighed, irritation masking concern. He still jumped when Illya lunged, suddenly but not without warning. Illya twisted Smith's shirt collar in his white-knuckled fist, held the beaten man there as he punched him repeatedly in the face. Smith choked on a scream, blood sputtering and gushing from his torn lips and broken nose, painting Illya's fist and the front of his jacket red. He gargled on a mouthful of blood, a tooth springing free and hitting the splattered ground.

It'd only been a few seconds, but already Smith's face was becoming unrecognizable. Napoleon licked his lips, took a deep breath- timing, it was all about timing and calculation. 

"Hey, hey," he said, reaching out to Illya. Napoleon waited for just the right moment before grabbing his shoulder, yanking Illya back and avoiding the reactionary blow. He snatched both of Illya's wrists in his hands, squeezing them tight. "Easy, easy now," Napoleon said firmly.

Illya struggled, looking like a cornered animal. Frightened, his face a pulsing crimson from fury. The tendons along his neck stood out against his skin, taut, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth could shatter. 

"Peril," Napoleon continued, speaking evenly and maintaining eye contact. Illya was looking through him, his own eyes glazed over. "Listen to me. Listen to my voice, Illya." He lightly pressed the edges of his short, manicured thumbnails into his partner's wrists. A little sting of pain, but nothing intense; simply a distraction. It seemed to work, because Illya was now actually looking at him.

Gaby reappeared, carrying the valuable intel they'd also come for in floppy disk form. She stepped back, alarmed, when she spotted Smith on the floor, his face one big pulpy smear of blood, groaning and head lolling. She opened her mouth, but closed it the moment she saw her teammates. Gaby knew better than to intervene, biting back a lecture as she ran over to check the extent of Smith's wounds. They needed the arms dealer alive, after all.

"What did you do, you idiot," Gaby scowled. Smith just gurgled at her.

"I need you to breathe, all right? Just like we practiced," Napoleon instructed. He inhaled, waiting for Illya to do the same. Illya just continued heaving through his flared nostrils, the red on his face turning a darker shade. "Here." Napoleon pressed up against his partner, chest to chest; the tremors vibrated between their bodies. "Do as I do."

Once again, Napoleon took a deep breath. Chest expanding and pushing against Illya's ribs. He exhaled, just as slowly. Never once breaking gazes. After the sixth inhale/exhale, Illya started breathing alongside him. Exhaling as the weight of Napoleon's chest guided him back, pulling him forward to inhale. In, out, in, out, until a healthy color returned to the Russian's face and the tension wound up in his broad shoulders loosened.

The second wave of anger hit, as strong as the first. A righteous fury demanding justification that no breathing exercises could quiet. After what Smith had said, Napoleon couldn’t blame him. 

"Illya," Napoleon continued, taking his partner's face in both hands, holding him still. "Pay attention to me, Peril. Just look at me. Only listen to what I have to say. And I want you to keep breathing, all right? _Breathe_ , Illya. Here." He took Illya's hand, wrapping his fingers around one of Napoleon's wrists. "Feel my pulse. Focus on that."

Illya snarled, screwing his eyes shut. He dug fingers into Napoleon's wrists, tight enough to break bone if he wanted. Napoleon wasn't afraid; he trusted him. Ignoring the pain, he continued breathing in tandem with Illya. 

Illya picked up the former pace, and little by little, his grip on Napoleon's hand relaxed.

"Good, that's good. You're doing wonderful, Peril," Napoleon said, smiling. He glanced to Gaby and Smith- their target had fallen unconscious. Gaby rolled him over, restraining his hands. She sat on the slumbering man's back. "Did you get a hold of Waverly?" Napoleon inquired.

"Yes. Backup should be arriving in a few minutes," Gaby sighed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "How is he?" she asked, nodding at Illya. Gaby didn't want to break the Russian from his trance, speak or touch him. Not like he could really hear her right now.

"Coming down," Napoleon reassured. "Purring like a kit--" and Napoleon could feel large fingers clenching his arms, too tight, too hard, "no, nevermind. Too soon? Too soon."

Illya loudly cleared his throat, dry and scratchy. He let Napoleon go, standing upright and adjusting his jacket. Ignored the still-wet blood on the front. "... He is alive?" he asked, turning to Gaby. He looked exhausted, even a little ashamed.

"He's probably got a concussion, but he'll live, yeah," Gaby replied, turning Smith's head and studying the lacerations across his face. "Gonna wake up with one hell of a hangover."

Illya sniffed. "Where did Waverly say reinforcements would meet us?"

"Rooftop. I know the way."

Illya reached down, hefting Smith into his arms. He threw him over his shoulder, blood trickling down the back of one pant leg. Gaby winced.

Napoleon looked between his teammates. Gaby, worried, annoyed, and Illya... Well, at least he wasn't on a murderous rampage anymore. Napoleon snatched the floppy disk from Gaby's pocket, grinning at her scowl. "Lead the way, little lady," he said, bowing his head and stepping aside.

\---

"You know, when I said we needed to 'pick Smith's brain,'" Waverly mumbled, angrily adjusting his glasses, "I didn't quite mean _literally_."

"Give him a couple hours. And a few shots of morphine."

Napoleon watched as an EMT cleaned the cuts along Illya's knuckles. The giant Russian sat awkwardly in the open medical evac helicopter, his vacant glare directed at nobody in particular. Behind him, Eddie Smith half-asleep and rambling, strapped to a gurney, head and half his swollen, purple-blue face dressed in bandages.

"What did he say?"

Napoleon sighed as Gaby joined his side. She, too, was staring at Illya. "He pulled the trigger," he answered. "The usual, but with a few words I dare not repeat for both of our sensibilities." Napoleon looked at his own hands; clean now, but there'd been spots of blood, Smith's blood, transferred when he held Illya's. "Bad mouth, bad taste."

Gaby shook her head. "Thank you," she said quietly, patting his arm.

Napoleon reached back, placing a hand over hers. Illya spotted them, then immediately looked away.

\---

After a quick debriefing and details for an upcoming case, Waverly sent the team to a new hotel for the night until their flight out tomorrow. Two suites adjacent of one another- comfortably large, if not a little tacky in style. When they arrived, Gaby snatched up Napoleon and Illya's hotel key. "You get the one bed," she said, without adding, I think you both need it. She looked at Illya, who had been relatively silent on the drive over. He frowned at Gaby, but said nothing.

"You sure?" Napoleon knew Illya wouldn't hold back from protesting if he was truly uncomfortable with the idea. They shared beds frequently, after all.

"I'm sure."

"Are you good with the arrangements, Peril?" Napoleon asked his gruff partner. "Or would you rather--"

"It's fine."

Napoleon's mouth went tight lipped. He nodded. "Well. Looks like it's settled then." He took Gaby's key.

"Now," Gaby huffed, leaning her suitcase against the door frame, "I'm going to turn on a record, take a nice long bubble bath, and drink something pink and fizzy that tickles my nose. You boys going to be okay?"

"We'll be just fine, mommy dearest," Napoleon cooed, "if you want, we'll call and give you check-ups once an hour."

Gaby snorted and waved a hand, clunky bracelets clicking together. "Gute nacht, asshole." She stepped over to Illya, lightly placing a hand to his face. "Sleep well, Illya," she said, rising on the edges of her toes. Illya obediently bent forward, allowing Gaby to kiss his cheek. Napoleon could see his ears turn pink, and couldn't help but smile. Gaby sighed as she went into her room; the two saw her throw her suitcase on one of the two beds and carelessly kick off her heels before the door shut and locked.

Napoleon went inside their shared room first. The single King sized bed was nicely made: silk and cashmere blankets, and a mountain of fluffed pillows. Napoleon set his suitcase on the small oak table, while Illya simply shoved his belongings into the closet. Once out of his jacket and tie, Napoleon took the sulking Russian by the hand and pulled him over.

The kiss was slow and chaste. Illya melted into it quickly, though his hands were hesitantly slow before finally settling on Napoleon's hips. Fingers finding his belt buckle and tugging. This was all part of the common routine- the two kissed, and then in usual silence, undressed one another and crawled into bed. Illya practically burrowed himself into Napoleon's chest, the American's arms wrapping around him, hands stroking along his back. He'd eventually cup the nape of Illya's neck, and the giant curled up against him would sigh and, shockingly enough, somehow appear smaller.

This is how the world ends, Napoleon thought to himself, tucking his chin on top of Illya's head.

Though, admittedly, these things sometimes went quite differently. Sometimes breathing exercises simply didn't work. Sometimes Napoleon had to manhandle Illya into calming down, push and pin him into the nearest, hardest surface; Illya would fight back, and often Napoleon ended up with a nice new bruise or shallow cuts, but the Russian would inevitably surrender. If only because he needed to breathe, and being crushed against the wall or floor while hyperventilating made that a tad difficult. Napoleon would ease back when he felt the fire leave Illya's bones, but kept his weight ever present. Ready to hold him down again if he resumed writhing and struggling.

Those were never ideal situations, but honestly, none of them were. These fits weren't common, thankfully, and Illya was learning to control his temper much better. He'd greatly improved over the years he'd been working with Napoleon and Gaby. Illya wasn't shy in confessing it was partially due to their support. It was still funny, in a sad way, that someone like Illya- so controlled, so methodical and calculating when he wanted to be- could snap and break almost too easily. But Illya was wound up tight; too tight. Fissures and cracks in the sturdiest of materials made it all that much easier to shatter and break with just the right (and often slightest) amount of pressure, the smallest push.

However, for all the strength and steadiness he found in Gaby and Napoleon, they, too, made it a lot easier for him to come undone. Illya had become quite fond of his partners- loved them, even. Illya teased Napoleon and his American gadgets and arrogance, but he knew Napoleon was a capable and good spy. Gaby, too, despite still being a bit of a novice; she learned fast, and became one of the best. He never doubted their skills. But when they were in trouble, when they were injured or kidnapped by their targets, when Illya was helpless to do anything at the moment- it sometimes became too much. They always survived in the end; bruised, a little broken, a bit worse for wear, but they were soldiers. They'd bounce back fast.

Illya remembered the first time Gaby had been nearly fatally shot on the job; almost bled herself to death before help arrived. He'd been cold and callous and hostile toward her, and didn't come to her bedside for two days after she'd woken in the hospital. He was more angry at himself than her, however, both Gaby and Napoleon knew. Day three, before discharge, Illya returned, bringing a gift- flowers were useless, died too quickly, so a piece of jewelry would suffice. A ring: red garnet set in a rose gold band; matched her eyes, her personality, he thought. Napoleon broke the ice and taunted Illya about it; Illya got defensive (but never heatedly), and soon the three were laughing and getting along like normal again.

Not even a month later during a new mission, Napoleon had been captured by their target, a maniacal THRUSH agent hellbent on world domination, as they do. Tortured; might have even lost his legs before his teammates arrived to rescue him. 

Gaby had been the one to pull Illya away from choking the leader of the operation. When words failed to get through to him, she slapped him hard across the face; Illya immediately went into a daze, shocked, a red handprint on his cheek. But he let the criminal go, the poor sod collapsing in a heap at their feet. Gaby instantly felt remorseful for hitting him, but now was not the time. She snapped at him to get Napoleon out while she took care of their target and his goons.

With the men restrained and UNCLE's reinforcements soon to arrive, Illya went to applying first aid to Napoleon. Napoleon noticed his hands were shaking, but not out of fear. He was still enraged, just waiting for one of the men to try and say something stupid to Gaby, to him, to Napoleon- "I'm g-going to be fine," Napoleon had stammered, wearing that smug grin, now tinted blue, "you've done what you can. Let's l-leave the rest to the professionals."

"Shut-"

Napoleon held up Illya's watch. The Russian's eyes nearly bulged from his skull. Shouldn't be surprised Napoleon picked it off of him, even half-conscious and body partially numb. "Listen," he said before Illya could even open his mouth. He placed the watch to Illya's ear; Illya flinched, but immediately heard the clock tick. Very quiet, but it thundered and pounded in his ringing ears. "Focus on t-the ticking."

Illya did. And soon enough, that need to snap someone's spine in two settled. He almost got lost in the sound of the watch- tick, tick, tick, tick- when agents from UNCLE burst into the room, fully armed and flanked with medics.

When Napoleon was released from the hospital, the two spent the rest of the evening lying in their current safehouse's bed. Bit too small for their combined size, but it didn't feel cramped; if anything, they felt... safe. Not speaking a word; nothing to be said that hadn't already been said, or need be said at all. Both men had been clothed at the time, but not for very long. Just as it was then, so it was now.

Illya nuzzled his mouth along Napoleon's throat, gently biting. His large, calloused hands splayed over Napoleon's chest, palms brushing against nipples. Napoleon groaned, reluctantly lying back. He forced Illya to meet his gaze. 

"Are you sure?" he asked, running the back of two fingers down along his partner's clenched jaw. Illya was still recuperating, and Napoleon could hear Eddie Smith's words ringing in his head again; that dreadful, repulsive word to describe Illya's mother- he didn't want to take advantage.

"Yes," Illya mumbled, eyes lidded. He held Napoleon's face, kissing him. A little deeper, holding back the desperation and neediness. Moving slowly.

Napoleon nodded, caressing one corner of his parted lips. He fetched a bottle of lube while Illya got comfortable. Both men were already half-mast. Illya stretched out on his back, sinking into the cushioned mattress and sheets as Napoleon placed a hand to the warm skin of his partner's inner thigh, parting his legs wider and crawling closer. Illya watched, chewing on his lip, as Napoleon coated his erect cock with a generous amount of lubricant. A few droplets hit Illya's quivering belly; the chill sending a shiver into his groin alongside the rolling beads, his cock twitching.

"Sure you're all right?" Napoleon asked again, warming dollops of the thick liquid between his fingers.

"Yes," Illya growled, but quickly bit his tongue and forced himself to calm down. "Yes, I... want this."

Napoleon smiled, short curly locks from his now disheveled hair draping across his forehead. He pushed one of Illya's legs back, finding his hole; with caution, he gently tugged and rubbed wet circles around his entrance before pressing the edge of a finger inside. Illya held his breath, momentarily stiffening; as Napoleon pushed in more of his digit, sliding in and out to and from the knuckle, Illya started to unwind again. If not more, thankfully.

Napoleon poured over Illya, thrusting a second finger inside when their lips met in a jumpy, somewhat clumsy kiss. Illya devoured his mouth, working his jaw, tongue moving inside and tasting Napoleon. It was all familiar territory, but he always kissed with the same curious, first-time gusto and intrigue. Napoleon's cock ached, and he might have started scissoring Illya's hole a little too fast for the Russian's liking, but... no complaint, not yet. He did his best not to take his dick in hand and start pumping. Wait, just wait, focus on Illya's mouth, his tongue licking and lapping against his, breaking to suckle or nibble on lips or pull away to run up his chiseled jawline and back down, back inside, dear _God_ -

Napoleon practically yanked his fingers free, and Illya moaned. He threw the Russian's toned, muscular legs over his shoulders with ease; one hand cupping beneath a knee, the other holding his waist. Lining himself, Napoleon inhaled, Illya exhaled, and he slowly pressed inside. Illya growled, twisting the sheets in his fists. He tried to remain open, flexible, allowing Napoleon to seat himself a little deeper. When they were both comfortable, Napoleon blew loose hair from his eyes, smiled warmly at Illya, and started thrusting.

If anything, these moments relaxed Napoleon, too. Calmed him down, too, but mostly just... settled his mind. He could focus on Illya, their bodies; watching Illya twist and wriggle beneath him, the obscene (sometimes, dare he say, cute) noises slipping from his panting mouth; begging, cursing, praising, growling, whimpering. All musical, really, and they gave Napoleon boosts of confidence. Gaby would tell him he didn't need anymore, lest he choke on all that pride.

The positions changed. Illya was still so frightfully elegant for a bear of a man. He jolted to a sit, shoving Napoleon back. Giving him time to pull out, adjust, and finally flop into Napoleon's lap. Quickly sliding back onto his hard cock, moaning as it went in with slippery ease. Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon's neck, held him flushed torso to torso as he bounced and grinded on his dick, taking almost the entire thing to the hilt.

Napoleon groaned, one arm hooked around Illya's lower back, slick with sweat. His free hand sliding through Illya's mussed hair, scratching at the scalp before tugging on the short dark-blond locks. Hard enough sometimes that Illya's head fell back with a snarl, and he clenched down on Napoleon's dick. It was painful but exhilarating at the same time, and Napoleon could see double for a second.

Napoleon cupped the back of Illya's neck again, free hand taking the Russian's cock. He smeared the pad of his thumb along the slit, drawing out a few beads of precum. Illya practically mewled, and the whole room spun. Things were suddenly too hot, but not hot enough. Napoleon kissed his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat, before sinking his teeth into Illya's shoulder. Biting and sucking, intent on leaving a mark; Illya would scold him later. Probably do so blushing the entire time, and Napoleon would be so tempted to just give him another hickey for being too damn adorable.

This was his, and he would take care of it. He knew Illya felt just the same about him.

With just a few more tugs on his cock, Illya came first, spilling along Napoleon's belly. His grip around the American hadn't loosened, however, even as his grinding came to a slow halt. He choked, eyes shut, at each sharp thrust inside of him. Dragged his fingers up and down Napoleon's back, leaving behind streaks of red. They'd be sore in the morning; both of them, but that would be fine. The pain was comforting; a reminder he survived, he made it through another mission, and Napoleon and Gaby were still by his side.

"Cowboy," Illya crooned against Napoleon's ear, biting down on the lobe. That was enough to finally bring Napoleon to the edge; both men went tense as Napoleon came with a low growl, filling Illya. He bucked his hips, milking out the very last drop, before going lax and boneless in his partner's arms.

Illya panted, resting his head against Napoleon's. He could feel a finger gently drawing circles over his spine. As the heat between their bodies settled, Napoleon sat back, slowly wiggling himself free. Illya pushed back on his ankles, lying down; hot semen trickled from his hole, wetting the sheets. The cramps in his toes were easing out, a thin layer of sweat already gathering on the pillow beneath his head.

Napoleon gathered up a few tissues from the box on the nightstand. Wiped himself and Illya clean- sufficiently enough until they showered. Not yet. He laid beside his teammate, helping to turn him onto his side until they were fitted nicely against one another. Illya dropped his head against Napoleon's chest, closing his eyes.

"What're you doing?" Napoleon asked a minute later.

"Listening."

Napoleon smirked. "To my heartbeats?"

"... It was... And those times before... always unprofessional."

Napoleon idly stroked Illya's hair. He knew what he was referring to. "It makes sense, though, you seeing red," he teased.

Illya frowned, eyebrows furrowed. "Do not joke."

"My apologies."

"Thank you..." Illya inhaled. A faint thumping repeating in his ear. "... Every time. Thank you."

Napoleon's fingers settled on top of Illya's head. "What does it feel like?" he inquired, a little hesitant.

Illya licked his lips, equally hesitant. "It is..." He paused. "It isn't always the same. But it is like... your head is heavy, filled with lead, and yet light at the same time. Like all the oxygen has left your brain; it could float away, if it weren't held down by the weight." He thought a moment. "Hard to breathe. Always hard to breathe. Same pressure; a lump, right here. Solar plexus." Illya tapped his fist against the center of his chest. "It's hot, bubbling; you cannot breathe. Makes your head light, as I said. But it, too, feels empty. Empty and full at the same time. It... hurts."

Napoleon said nothing, just listening.

"Sometimes there is a... tingling sensation. In the side. Nyet- jabbing; stinging. Like you're sick. Sometimes it's in both sides; kidneys, maybe. Sometimes it's also in the feet, in the hands, the legs. Sometimes it's everywhere. It's the same, but never quite the same." Illya scratched at his shoulder, by the fresh bruise. "Itchy. Annoying. Cannot hear; everything is blurry. All senses dulled, yet heightened. It is contradicting. But the world- it's tissue paper, thin, so easy to tear through. Everything has the ability to hurt, and you want it to hurt. You want everything, and everyone, to hurt."

"Just like you do," Napoleon murmured.

Illya nodded, swallowing. "Everything is offensive; everything is an assault on your senses, on your mind. On your... feelings. Everything is your enemy." He held out a hand. "But it always... starts... here. In the hands."

Napoleon took his hand, sliding their fingers together. "I've noticed," he said.

Illya grunted. "Others have noticed. Others that should not. I cannot afford to be... so emotional..." He scowled. "I have trained for years, and yet when these... things happen, it feels like I'm a neophyte again. A child."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit, Peril," Napoleon said, and might have made a joke- but he knew now was not the time. Not for a while. "You're a great agent."

"Far better than you."

"And here I was, being oh so considerate-"

Illya sat up, lightly slapping Napoleon's side. "Shower," he sniffed, "it's sticky, and we smell."

"Eloquent," Napoleon sneered. He let Illya help him up, arms slung over each other's shoulders as they hobbled off to the bathroom. The silence returned, but it wasn't uncomfortable; it felt right, settling like a warm blanket. They kissed beneath the hot water until they were dizzy.

After changing the sheets (and slightly mourning them on Napoleon's behalf), the two laid down and covered up. Napoleon spooned Illya's back, one leg shifting between his until they were tangled together. He sighed against the back of Illya's neck, tickling the little hairs there. Illya fidgeted, then went still.

Napoleon opened his tired eyes. He found Illya's hand, tracing a thumb over the freshly bandaged cuts along his knuckles.

"Ya vsegda ryadom," Napoleon murmured.

Illya slowly hooked two fingers around Napoleon's. "Da," he whispered, "ya znayu."

**Author's Note:**

> Floppy disks came out around the late '60s, and since this fic takes place some time after the movie, I figured they were permissible to use. A very important note I just had to add, I guess.


End file.
